


fair chance

by seliene



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Pining, Post-Time Skip, Reader-Insert, atsumu is...... atsumu, brief mentions of inarizaki (suna best boy ♡), happy 2021 here's the smut y'all ordered, i pine you pine we all pine for miya osamu, i'm way too lazy to tag said smut but it's in the description bye, if u see me editing the tags for the 830985093th time no u do not, osamu owns shirts and pants made of husband material, written in lapslock cus i got lazy to proper capitalise innit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:14:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25728001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seliene/pseuds/seliene
Summary: sure, he isn’t a star athlete, like his brother, but you (still) think he’d be the man of your dreams—do all that he can, be all he can be.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu & Reader, Miya Osamu/Reader
Comments: 42
Kudos: 289





	1. so hard to get over it

**Author's Note:**

> title from thundercat's "fair chance" [♡](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IoFOXgIme9M)
> 
> anyways, hi. s’my first fic here, and *bokuto voice* samusamu will be my first sacrifice.
> 
> largely unbeta’ed ‘cause i’m a degenerate who can't figure out her tenses. go easy on me? 🙏
> 
> (01/28: changed "(y/n)" to "[name]" so you can put whatever name ya want.)

“whatd’ya mean ya wouldn’ fuck me, [name]? what does suna have that _i_ don’t?”

“common sense, for one.”

“she’s not wrong, ‘tsumu.”

“man, _fuck_ you guys.”

chatter dissolves into laughter, filling your section of the izakaya. you’re seated at the counter up and close to the owner, who’s currently running handy knifework through a thick piece of tuna. you’re to osamu’s left, atsumu’s to his right—and for the last two hours, the three of you have been spending time catching up on what’s new in your lives.

tonight’s a rare occasion for the miya twins: atsumu’s in town on the mere agenda of wanting to kill time because he’s apparently been told he practices too much. osamu is still as busy as ever, like the entrepreneur he is, but he doesn’t have as _much_ paperwork to fill out tonight. (or so, atsumu had apparently convinced him.)

you were brought into the equation because atsumu, lounging around onigiri miya with nothing better to do at lunchtime, saw you come into the shop yesterday. you flat out said “no” before the blonde could even get the rest of his question out, only to bring out a trap card ( _“ya know ‘samu’s comin’, yeah?”_ ) as leverage.

and here you are, silently cursing the piss-haired demon that is miya atsumu, for playing to what ~~(or who)~~ could perhaps be considered one of your rare soft spots, with three mugs of beer, many plates of anything fried, the surprise sake bomb, and several servings of sashimi sitting in your stomach.

the three of you are supposed to be reminiscing about the good ol’ days of high school, as a contrast to how much busier your lives are as adults. instead, the current discussion is your answers to atsumu’s “fun” game of ‘fuck, marry, kill’: inarizaki edition, because atsumu was _more_ than eager to hear your answers. so, you indulge them— _fuck suna, marry kita, kill atsumu_.

all in good fun, and no one gets hurt. _right?_

“but in all seriousness, though. suna’s pretty quiet—had that sexy brooding mystery type thing going for him, and i’d be into that. kita’s patient _and_ reliable, so he’s an ideal husband. you, ‘tsumu, just don’t know how to shut the fuck up.”

osamu almost spits his drink out in laughter, but recovers quickly, you giggling and patting at his back.

“o _kay_ ,” atsumu retorts, eyerolling. “not that i care, but anyone else on our old team you had notes on?”

“well,” you start, drifting off into thought. “i know ojiro would treat me right—”

another roll of the eyes from atsumu, a raise of the glass from osamu; both grunt and hum in agreement, however.

“—and i still want to punch ginjima in the throat. michinari’s family, so absolutely fucking not. riseki needs a big hug... still does. _oh!_ kosaku had really nice thighs though… like, _really_.”

“was that necessary?”

“you asked, ‘tsumu.”

said man scoffs, turning his attention to the plate of sliced fatty tuna now before him. you turn your attention to osamu, who’s already got his mouth full _._

you also don’t think your stomach could handle you taking another bite of food, but by the time his cheeks aren’t as full, osamu’s already offering you a piece off his own plate—like he has been for the last fifteen to twenty minutes of him ordering something new, because he’s intent on ordering at least one of everything, _and_ getting you to try the food along with him.

“oh my god, ‘samu, _stoooooop,_ ” you groan, a laugh bubbling out of your throat, leaning away from whatever he’s holding out towards you between his chopsticks. “you’re gonna make me fat, i swear!”

you don’t normally order that much, out of embarrassment from eating so much in public but also out of wanting to save your money like the cheapskate you are—however, the miya twins are (and always have been) big eaters and decided to splurge for the night. (your seat included, despite your protests. you’d pay for your share though, you were going to make sure of it!)

he’s also been making a habit of watching you chew and swallow, as if to make sure you’re eating, and your cheeks would burn from the attention he directs your way.

_repeatedly._

“like havin’ meat on yer bones is the _worst_ thing in the world?”

your voice drops in volume, matching osamu’s chopsticks lowering near his plate. “well…”

“not ta mention, [name]… yer still shit at eatin’ regular meals when yer sober.”

you can’t help but be a little embarrassed at that. you’re guilty of both forgetting to eat proper, healthy meals at the right time, but also coming into onigiri miya at a minimum of three times a week and you barely ever stray from three items off his menu—salmon when you’re in a good mood, tamago when you’re in a hurry, and sukiyaki when you’re downright hungry. (all three with a bonus spicy cucumber onigiri when you’re stressed out, however. osamu calls it your fantastic four.)

tired, lazy eyes still fixing themselves on you, osamu raises a brow. “have ya also fergotten wot _yer_ like when ya drink? y’think _my_ appetite’s bad, but yers even _worse!_ ”

“t-that’s ‘cause i’m pacing myself for once!” you wail with reason, fingernails tapping at the half-filled stein you’re cradling. you aren’t the type to get _drunk_ drunk, but when you’re tipsy, your hunger goes up tenfold. and by the way osamu stares at you, he knows this—personally, if your memory recalls correctly. his wallet and doorbell has suffered one too many saturday’s because of you and your tipsy, seemingly famished self.

“so, y’got abs’lutely _no_ problem eatin’ an entire lawson’s aisle, but a ham and cheese croquette the size of ‘tsumu’s peabrain is suddenly yer enemy?”

you snort in laughter at the comparison, and your laughs become much louder when osamu roughly jerks forward, almost dropping what he’s (still) holding between his chopsticks. golden locks peek out from osamu’s right shoulder, contrasting the dark (once upon a time, silver) head of hair beside you.

“m’brain ain’t _that_ fuckin’ small,” atsumu grumbles loud enough for you to hear, taking a slow sip of his drink.

“wouldn’t be so sure about that, golden boy,” you quip, a cheeky grin to boot.

you ignore atsumu’s colourful response of flipping the bird, sighing as you give into osamu as you lean closer to him, mouth opening. he’s more than happy to oblige, visibly pleased when your teeth bite into the fried crumb, accompanied by the sound of a crisp crunch. the sight of a cheese pull when you tilt your head back adds to the pleasantries, pulling at the cheese strings with your lips and tongue until they thin out enough to snap.

you’re chewing so very carefully, hand covering your mouth, that you don’t notice osamu’s stare linger for a little longer than intended. when you do notice, however, your cheeks are back to sporting the wild red you previously had a moment ago. osamu, on the other hand, shrugs casually. _no big deal._

“not so bad, yeah?” he asks, attempting to feed you the other half you hadn’t taken into your mouth. you shake your head, hand pushing away at the air. he’s then casually popping the remainder _into his mouth_ , and you wished you weren’t still looking at him when he did that.

something like sharing bites of food should _not_ get you flustered. _you went to high school together, for goodness’ sake!_ you’re remembering having to make extra if you brought food from home _or_ brought extra pocket money to spend during lunch rush, because the miya twins were growing boys doubling as high school athletes with voracious stomachs, and you were courteous enough to share your food. you’ve split bread with osamu more times than you could count, _and_ you’ve even hand-fed him some of your bento from your own chopsticks—but why did the sheer sight of him eating something where your lips had been start to affect you _now?_

“right, i’m off!” atsumu cuts through your thoughts, plate cleaned and foam sliding slowly down his glass. you and osamu simultaneously turn your attention as he slides off his stool.

“already?” osamu asks, attempting to split the last croquette on his plate with his chopsticks.

“duty calls, bro.” atsumu beams, glancing briefly at his phone in hand. “gotta be up tomorrow bright and early!”

“i thought your supposed workaholic tendencies were put to a pause though?” your brow raises—even more so when atsumu’s screen lights up again, his gaze dropping down for a moment. your suspicion shoots through the roof, an eyebrow arched to match, but you choose to remain wordless on that.

atsumu flickers his attention upwards, shooting a lazy grin in your direction when he catches your line of sight. “babygirl, i’m an athlete. national representative level. _the grind never stops_.”

fingers combing through strands of gold, atsumu delivers that nickname all too suavely. you aren’t going to admit it for the sake of saving face but _god_ , how that pet name makes you feel—even if it _does_ come from the likes of atsumu, who says it all too naturally. your mind quietly drifts elsewhere with that nickname, flickers of gray and silver filling your head.

“yeah, yeah, _whatever_.” eyes rolling into the back of your skull, your head turns away. your hand is raised to shoo him away, but you suddenly feel a warmth along your skin, calloused fingers against the softness of your palm—and when you turn your head, atsumu’s lips are pressed to your knuckles.

you lose track of how many times your face has turned red, internally choosing to blame it on the alcohol despite your pacing, and you have to force your attention elsewhere that isn’t his intense stare tracing the length of your arm.

“w-what the fuck, atsumu?”

you inwardly curse at the stutter that leaves your lips, and the blonde merely laughs. you’re trying to pull your hand back, but his own keeps you still. “s’fer not payin’ me much attention tonight, [name]. ‘samu’s had ya most of the nigh—”

his words cut off when osamu elbows at his brother’s forearm, forcing him to drop your hand. you cradle it all too quickly, palm pressed to your chest, a faint thump felt beneath your touch.

“see? but jus’ know i’ll get my time wit’ ya _eventually_.”

topped off with that trademark lazy smirk of his, you feel like atsumu says that to you not as a threat, _but as a promise._ a shiver runs up your spine and you hardly get a word out, let alone much of a goodbye (and a punch, flimsy and out of embarrassment) as he sees himself out, two fingers saluting you both over his shoulder.

your attention snaps to osamu, whose eyes have never left you, and your face almost _drains_ of its colour for the first time tonight.

you and _osamu_.

osamu and _you_.

_alone._

_together._

“just us, huh?” you say nervously, attempting to break the silence, grip on your glass beginning to tighten. you aren’t sure as to why you’re suddenly a bundle of nerves, but you realise throughout that exchange with atsumu, you hadn’t been paying as much attention to osamu.

you’d been alone with osamu once before, many times, and sat in comfortable silence. you visited his shop often, too. nothing felt weird, nor out of place. because the lot of you, since high school, are _friends._

you and osamu are _friends._

but something in the air feels different to you this time, and you’re hoping you’re not reading _too_ much into the situation.

( your own thoughts and feelings aside, of course. you can’t blame yourself for wanting a little more though, can you? )

“s’not a bad thing, yeah?” he chuckles, knocking back what’s left of his own drink. he’s then finishing what’s left of the croquettes, before he announces, “but, we should probably go too.”

“together?” you blurt out, before covering your mouth again. you decide to silence yourself, not wanting to sound more suggestive, by chugging the remainder of beer left sitting in your glass, and your embarrassment tunes out the laugh osamu lets out.

“yeah? like, leavin’. you go home, i go home.”

you breathe in an attempt to relax. _of course that’s what he meant_ , you think.

“unless ya wanna do somethin’ else…”

your breathing doesn’t work, however, and the bundle of nerves you tried to calm down tangles its wires all over your brain. caught off-guard by that statement, your short-circuiting results in you tipping your head back a little too far. there’s beer going up your nose and (mostly) spilling the front of your button-up shirt, as well as a decent splash on the thigh of your jeans, as well.

sputtering out a cough, osamu’s already got a firm hand rubbing circles on your back. he’s then holding up a napkin to your face, starting to wipe at your nose.

“ya needta slow down, princess,” he warns, tutting as he runs the napkin gingerly around your mouth. “s’not a race. woulda waited fer ya ta finish, anyway.”

if you didn’t feel like a child already, you definitely do feel like one now. your cheeks redden _once again_ , throat burning unpleasantly, pout on your lips. osamu wordlessly wipes at the tears formed in the corner of your eyes in the meantime.

“you’re too good to me, ‘samu,” you say with much earnest. “always takin’ care of me.”

he chuckles. “what’re friends for, right?”

the word _friends_ rings in your ear, but your attention is drawn to the warmth of osamu’s palm under your chin, thumb and middle finger firmly pressed against the hollow of your cheeks. gray eyes study your features intently and you’re trying your hardest to steel your nerves, even if your brain is screaming at you on what ‘signals’ to read into.

“r-right… friends.”

osamu nods curtly, releasing his hold on your face before handing you more napkins, vaguely gesturing to your chest. you thank him silently, taking them from him and begin to dab the liquid out of your shirt. you think you’ve done a good job by the time you get to your last sheet, but you’re still uncomfortable with the feeling of damp fabric on your skin, and the stench of beer sticking to you.

so, you decide to take off the first few buttons of your shirt. you consider whether you should go for another button or not, but you’d be showing off more than a hint of cleavage that way.

something in your brain yells _‘fuck it’_ , and your fingers unbutton it anyway. your comfort comes first, and the breeze of air that hits your chest feels refreshing.

you think you’re good to go, but you make the mistake of looking at osamu. your curious eyes meet his—seemingly void, but there’s something else in the way he takes your form in.

like he’s _hungry_ , almost.

he doesn’t say much else besides a “let’s go” and swaps your coat in favour of throwing his jacket at you.

_his jacket._

you’re about to question him, but you also can’t find it in you to protest. looping your arms through the holes, you’re then pulling at the zipper until it reaches your chin. the sleeves fall way past your hands, and you can’t help yourself from burying your nose into the collar. you smell a faint wood sage and sea salt—the cologne you’d bought him for christmas, because it’s one of your favourites—but also another scent that’s so relatively… _him._

it comforts you— _feels like home._

once you pull yourself from your thoughts, you spot osamu already at the cash register, his own wallet in hand. realisation then dawns upon you because not only has that dark haired, gray eyed fox taken your jacket, he’s also taken your purse.

that, alone, prompts you to move faster, scrambling to your feet and racing over in his direction.

“hey, wait—‘samu, _no!_ let me pay!”

* * *

the walk on the way home is rather sobering, at the very least.

from the doors of the izakaya to the gates of the train station—and the convenience store you stopped at in between, merely because _‘snacks are life’_ , and you were prepared to argue on that—you’re able to stand _and_ walk with one foot in front of the other. though the beer was wearing off, you’re kind of regretting the decision to take public transportation, wishing you weren’t so stubborn at refusing osamu’s earlier offer to share a cab.

though osamu’s jacket is more than comfortable, your shirt still (uncomfortably) sticks to you. you can’t wait to jump in the shower, but you’re also ready for bed, which plays into your other habit when you drink: not only do you get incredibly hungry, you also tend to have bouts of becoming incredibly sleepy—which explains why your arm is looped through osamu’s, and the way you’re leaning against him, your ear pressed to his shoulder. the action itself seems reserved for things couples do, but osamu hasn't shoved you off of him at least _once_.

he’s the one who offered his arm, after all.

_because we’re friends, right?_ your brain quietly echoes.you’re then repeating _we’re friends, just friends, only friends, friends since high school, totally haven’t had an on-and-off crush on him since second year_ like a mantra, as if you’re trying to convince yourself of anything else besides being _friends_ with miya osamu.

your mouth opens to let out an involuntary yawn in the middle of your chanting, and suddenly, you feel a slight shift under your cheek. osamu cranes his head over yours, and you avert your eyes in any other direction that doesn't have gray eyes or a grin, bordering shit-eating levels, in sight.

“still don’t wanna admit _my_ way woulda been easier?”

your cheeks suddenly flare in colour, head lifting as you direct a punch to his bicep. “shut the fuck up.”

osamu straightens up, chest rumbling as he laughs. “didn’t hurt, by the way. but s’not too late ta change yer mind ‘bout the cab.”

you’re about to argue again, but another yawn beats you to the punch. as of this moment, you’re definitely tired, and you want the comfort of lying down because you definitely _cannot_ function right now. “ _mmmmmmmph._ fine. at least let me pay for it this time.”

his footsteps come to a halt, before gently pulling you off the sidewalk, the plastic bag holding your (and osamu’s) snacks swinging from your wrist. he’s then fishing his phone out of his pocket, and you're made to stand beside him, arm still linked with yours, while he's carefully adjusting your coat over his other shoulder. “as ya wish, m’lady.”

“don't call me that!”

“yes, m’lady.”

“miya osamu, i swear—”

“i am sworn by royal oath to yer service, m’lady.”

“ _god_ , i can’t stand you.”

“careful ya don’t fall _too_ hard fer me, m’lady.”

_too late for that, unfortunately._

you merely huff, he purely chuckles. the calling tone rings softly in his ear, the heartbeat madly drumming against your ribcage rings loudly in yours.

so loudly that you don’t hear osamu on the phone telling the cab company the suburb _he_ lives in, instead of _yours_.


	2. stuck in between / it is what it is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thinkin’ about the osakita sketch from the light novel and so we’re gonna pretend like i didn’t say osamu’s hair is silver/gray in part 1 even though i’m unsure if he legit dyes his hair anymore or what (i assume not cus he wears that cap a lot)
> 
> also, once again, we going unbeta’d ‘cause i still don’t know my tenses. xoxo

you’re more than halfway through the cab ride, with osamu, when you realise you _aren’t_ going to your apartment.

light pole (that hasn’t been fixed for months) flickering down upon a mailbox painted blue, small cafe with the best matcha latte and earl grey chiffon cake, sharp turn of the narrow street osamu offers as a ‘shortcut’ (which the driver takes, with thanks), house on the corner with the pine tree still hanging christmas lights—all in the same order you recognize when you’re on your way to osamu’s place.

while you _had_ been sleepy earlier, you, somehow, had mentally worked yourself into a kind of frenzy (read: overthinking about anything and everything) that you were too high strung to actually fall asleep, letting whatever was said by osamu in one ear and out the other. you, at least, remember filing into the back of the taxi, osamu climbing in after you. the bag of snacks, along with your coat and purse, still sit in between the both of you as a reminder.

tongue wetting at your lips, you decide to break the silence with a “why’re we goin’ ta yers, ’samu?” followed by a clearing of the throat, your voice sounding a little hoarse.

osamu is suddenly attentive to your use of dialect— _somethin’ he ain’t heard in a while_ —lazy smirk present as he turns his head. you, on the other hand, have your forehead resting against the window pane, though you keep a listening ear out.

“s’not like ya ain’t been there before, have ya?”

you have, in fact. three or four times for dinner and drinks, when the hotshots who made it out of hyogo—atsumu, suna, ojiro, riseki... just to name a few—are in town, and osamu’s willing to cook. but you’ve never been one to stay over after midnight.

( even if osamu _has_ offered his spare room to you first, on more than one occasion. you tend to decline out of not wanting to impose on him, however, and he’s never forced you to stay. )

“my place is closer,” osamu starts, carefully. “and wasn’ sure if ya’d pass out on the train. kind of a friend would i be if i didn’ look out fer ya?”

ah, there that word goes again— _friend._

you simply nod in that of understanding, preparing not to question any further, because you’re certain if you did, you’d start overthinking a lot more than you (currently) already do.

( of course, the mind is a fickle thing, and your brain is ready to jump to conclusions faster than usain bolt. )

“but also, s’my favourite jacket ya got on, and ya stinkin’ it up—”

you snap _all_ too quickly, mouth opening—

“i didn’t ask for it though? you _gave_ it to me, dumbass!”

—but osamu’s _just_ as fast with a comeback.

“didn’ know it was a ‘tits out’ kinda night fer ya?”

“oh my god, you fuckin’—”

you whip your head around to face him in record time, arm swinging with a balled fist. your punch connects with his chest, hearing a hollow thud, and you watch osamu keel forward in his seat, a bit of wind knocked out of him.

if it hadn’t been for the pre-tensioner of your seatbelt holding you back, or for the fact you _do_ value safety in a moving car, you would’ve throttled him.

even if you _did_ , actually, kind of find it funny.

_kind of._

~~god, you’re _whipped._~~

“alright, i’m sorry!” osamu wheezes through laughter, palm cradling the affected area, while the other holds your forearm at bay as means of defense.

“liar,” you grumble under your breath, snatching your arm back to your side, grin tugging at a corner of your lips. “yer an insolent piece-a work, y’know that?”

“yer still friends wit’ me doe. whazzat say ‘bout _you_ , huh?”

“maybe i’ve just built up a tolerance to you and your half-wit being after all these years, ‘samu.”

“ouchie?”

“deserve.”

“kiss it better?”

“sod off.”

you can practically _hear_ osamu rolling his eyes, _hear_ the way his lips draw up into a smirk, _hear_ his faint chuckle under his breath. (you’re also ignoring the fact the tips of your ears feel like they’re _burning._ )

“for the record though? if ya wanted to see the girls fer yaself, could’ve just asked nicely.”

you’re passing a glance over at him ever so casually, though you’re two seconds away from pretending like that didn’t just come out of your mouth, but the _“just friends”_ part that currently occupies a good 52% of your brain says he won’t bite the bait.

so, why not throw caution to the wind just this _once?_ it’s not like your friendship will change after this, _right?_

“al _right_ , here we are—sir, ma’am.”

a completely different voice from yours and osamu’s—the driver, you soon realise—interrupts you both as the ride comes to a stop, taxi having pulled over to the side opposite of osamu’s apartment complex.

the light above you switches on when osamu wordlessly climbs out of the car, gathering the rest of your things at lightning speed beforehand, except for your purse this time (as promised). rifling through the contents to pull out enough notes, you resist the urge to sigh and shift your attention to your task at the time being, handing the driver your money for his fare and thank him for the ride.

once you’re sure you have everything, checking into the backseat to make sure nothing fell out, you climb out and close the door—shortly after, the taxi rides off into the night. the air is rather calm and cool on your skin, a breeze whistling through your hair.

osamu, on the other hand, is now across the street, waiting in quiet for you. you suddenly feel a kind of tension hanging between you—it tangles itself around your gut, warm and brewing, almost pulling you towards him.

steeling your nerves once more in an effort to calm the storm, you cross the street to close the distance.

* * *

the walk up to osamu’s apartment is quiet.

his unit sits at the top floor—yet through three flights of stairs, he hasn’t spoken a single word to you, nor have you entertained the thought. he’s only looking over his shoulder to check if you’re still following, and when you are, he keeps moving ahead.

the second upon arriving at osamu’s front door, it is (once again) you, who breaks the silence.

“thank you,” you blurt out, leaning against the barricade, line of sight darting off from side to side.

osamu pauses in jostling his house key into the lock, brow arched in curiosity, ear paying close attention. “fer what, [name]?”

“i’unno. takin’ care of me, i guess?” you shrug, combing your fingers through your hair, giving a light tousle. “like ya always do.”

a chuckle escapes osamu’s lips, followed by the sound of a clicking lock, gray eyes peering over a broad shoulder in your direction. “weirdo. ya already said that ta me before.”

“i’m aware. can’t hurt to reiterate though, right?”

“and i reiterate: weirdo.” rolling his eyes at you, osamu turns his attention to pull the door open, doing the courtesy of holding it open for you. _a gentleman, indeed._

“s’pose ya do this kind stuff for all yer friends though. don’tcha, ‘samu?”

your temporary doorman remains frozen in place as you casually skip past him, uttering a cheeky _“tadaima!”_ as you step into the genkan.

resting a hand against the wall, you’re lifting a foot up, finger jamming into the back of your shoe to loosen it first before yanking it off to the floor. the _“okaeri”_ comes from behind you, sounding nothing short of inviting, yet just as cheeky as your greeting had been.

the door locks shut a second later, and osamu moves a lot faster, shifting with practiced ease past you. he’s arranging his sneakers—and your lone boot that had toppled over to the side, because you’re still hunched over trying to get the other one off—and stepping into the house, but not before placing a pair of slippers before you, in your line of sight.

“not all my friends are as lucky as you, [name].”

osamu curtly leaves you to your thoughts, spinning on his heel to disappear into a room.

you’re now surrounded by quiet once more, brows furrowing in confusion. _what the fuck does_ ** _that_** _mean?_

* * *

_“not all my friends are as lucky as you.”_

osamu’s words continuously ring in your ears—have been, since you stepped into his house. _even_ after you’ve finished showering. upon emerging from the bathroom into the washroom, he’s left clean towels, a change of clothes, and a spare toothbrush on top of the small washing machine currently running a load that you assume are the clothes you had been wearing a good half an hour ago.

( the shirt you change into is one of his old volleyball jerseys, ‘inarizaki high school’ written across your shoulder blades and the number 2 sitting on your chest and back respectively, falling mid-thigh; the shorts he’s left for you fit rather loosely, but are comfortable enough for you to move around in, only _just_ peeking out underneath the jersey—though you feel odd not wearing any intimates underneath.

_small victories_ , you suppose. )

once deeming yourself fresh and presentable, you’ve made your way out in the hallway. swapping bathroom sandals for indoor slippers, you’re then heading towards the spare room he had shown you earlier. the sliding door has been left open, and upon entering, you’re welcomed by the sight of a futon already made and waiting—two mattresses, a considerable stack of blankets, and three pillows have been laid out for you. your belongings sit on the long table wedged in the corner to your right, besides a warmly lit lamp, and you rifle through them to pull out your phone, throwing the device atop the covers.

tightening the towel twisted around your head and taking off your slippers, you join your phone down on the futon. laying on your back, your screen unlocks upon picking up your phone, and you’re reading through your texts: a few from your (girl) best friend sending you three tiktok links to watch— _one about an alcohol recipe to try, one about nagakusa-kun dancing, one about the proper choking technique—_ along with her asking how your night is going—

**[8:40pm] miss phatty** 🍑 **:** manifesting for my best friend to have not overthought herself into a stroke ✨

 **[11:19pm] you:** unfortunately  
 **[11:19pm] you:** i’m at osamu’s house now so if u don’t hear from me  
 **[11:19pm] miss phatty** 🍑 **:** 𝒐𝒉 _ **?**  
_ **[11:19pm] you:** pray for a bitch  
 **[11:19pm] you:** NOT THE FONTS  
 **[11:19pm] miss phatty** 🍑 **:** manifesting for my best friend to have her insides feng shui’d tonight ✨  
 **[11:19pm] you:** PLEASE BE QUIET  
 **[11:19pm] miss phatty** 🍑 **:** 𝑮𝑬𝑻  
 **[11:19pm] miss phatty** 🍑 **:** 𝑺𝑼𝑴  
 **[11:19pm] miss phatty** 🍑 **:** 𝑮𝑬𝑻  
 **[11:19pm] miss phatty** 🍑 **:** 𝑺𝑼𝑴  
 **[11:20pm] miss phatty** 🍑 **:** 👏👏👏  
 **[11:20pm] you:** WE’RE JUST FRIENDS  
 **[11:20pm] miss phatty** 🍑 **:** since high school yes i know you 𝙩𝙤𝙡𝙙 me 🙄  
 **[11:20pm] miss phatty** 🍑 **:** can’t u just indulge me in my slow burn friends-to-lovers “everyone knows they’re dating except them” agenda just this once PLEASE???  
 **[11:20pm] you:** i love ur ass but i regret knowing u  
 **[11:20pm] miss phatty** 🍑 **:** so back to what i was saying!  
 **[11:20pm] miss phatty** 🍑 **:** u dance around ur feelings for him so much idk why u can’t go nike  
 **[11:20pm] miss phatty** 🍑 **:** just do it ✔️  
 **[11:20pm] you: -** 1/10 unrealistic. do not recommend  
 **[11:20pm] you:** also ur as insufferable as tsumu 🙄  
 **[11:20pm] miss phatty** 🍑 **:** tell that scrumptious man my throat is an abortion clinic and he can put his kids in there  
 **[11:20pm] you:** i’m good luv enjoy❤️  
 **[11:21pm] miss phatty** 🍑 **:** boo you WHORE

—followed by two from your mother, asking (on behalf of your father) if you’re still coming over to help for a potluck dinner tomorrow—

**[11:21pm] you:** at friend’s house  
 **[11:21pm] you:** i’ll b over in the morn 👍  
 **[11:23pm] mama** 💖 **:** Which friend  
 **[11:23pm] you:** osamu  
 **[11:23pm] you:** PLS DON’T TELL DAD  
 **[11:26pm] mama** 💖 **:** Dad said when’s the wedding. He’s waiting😂  
 **[11:26pm] you:** MAMA!!!!!!!!!! 😠  
 **[11:27pm] mama** 💖 **:** Oops  
 **[11:27pm] mama** 💖 **:** I saw that too late😂  
 **[11:27pm] mama** 💖 **:** He said bring him too

—and two from… _atsumu?_

you tap on atsumu’s texts to see an image of you and osamu at the izakaya together. the picture is angled from a point of view where you see fingers in a semi-circle shape, thumb on your head and index on osamu’s. you presume that’s atsumu’s hand, and he’s even taken the liberty of drawing a huge heart with both your heads ‘inside’, the reply underneath the image doubling as a caption.

**[9:54pm] pain in the ass** 🏐💯💪 **:** now kith 😙

 **[11:27pm] you:**??????????????????  
 **[11:30pm] pain in the ass** 🏐💯💪 **:** did i stutter  
 **[11:30pm] you:** and when i kill u 🥴  
 **[11:30pm] pain in the ass** 🏐💯💪 **:** die on my brother’s dick first  
 **[11:31pm] you:** UR FUCKING SICKKKKKK  
 **[11:31pm] pain in the ass** 🏐💯💪 **:** wow u didn’t even try to deny it  
 **[11:31pm] pain in the ass** 🏐💯💪 **:** 😂😂😂😂😂😂  
 **[11:31pm] pain in the ass** 🏐💯💪 **:** GOTTEMMMMMM  
 **[11:31pm] you:** choke  
 **[11:31pm] pain in the ass** 🏐💯💪 **:** 🔄  
 **[11:31pm] pain in the ass** 🏐💯💪 **:** no u  
 **[11:31pm] you:** u first bitch i know u left for a dick appointment  
 **[11:31pm] pain in the ass** 🏐💯💪 **:** LMAOOOOOO!!!!!  
 **[11:31pm] pain in the ass** 🏐💯💪 **:** don’t hate me cus u ain’t me babygirl 👅  
 **[11:31pm] you:** 🖕  
 **[11:31pm] you:** perish  
 **[11:32pm] pain in the ass** 🏐💯💪 **:** no❤️  
 **[11:32pm] you:** and u wonder why i’m so mean to u  
 **[11:32pm] pain in the ass** 🏐💯💪 **:** cus ur evil  
 **[11:32pm] you:** boss sun bitch moon demon rising ✨  
 **[11:32pm] pain in the ass** 🏐💯💪 **:** ur chanclas are in gatorade or w/e  
 **[11:32pm] pain in the ass** 🏐💯💪 **:** anyways if samu not gon do anythin  
 **[11:32pm] pain in the ass** 🏐💯💪 **:** after almost 10 years of knowin ur ass  
 **[11:33pm] pain in the ass** 🏐💯💪 **:** then imma go trey songz  
 **[11:33pm] pain in the ass** 🏐💯💪 **:** call me mr. steal yo girl 😈  
 **[11:34pm] you:** isn’t ur english name barry  
 **[11:34pm] pain in the ass** 🏐💯💪 **:** FUCK OFF  
 **[11:34pm] you:** ya like jazz? 🐝😏  
 **[11:34pm] pain in the ass** 🏐💯💪 **:** 👎👎👎👎👎👎

you’ve been cackling to yourself whilst going back and forth with atsumu, shifting repeatedly in positions from lying down, legs kicking in the air, to sitting upright, facing the light of the lamp with your back to the door, that you don’t even notice a shadow looming from behind you.

“what’s gotcha all giggly, princess?”

“your brother, he’s getting on my nerves and be…”

you regret turning your head to look over your shoulder, because your sentence dies in your throat, mouth immediately going dry at the sight of osamu standing at the entrance of the door.

he’s clad in a tank top and a pair of sweatpants, towel draped around his neck as he tousles his hair with it. he’s grinning at you smugly, and you’re trying your hardest not to gape like a fish out of water, brows knitting together as your brain attempts to formulate some kind of sentence to retain normalcy—

“…ing… weird… um.”

—but your brain draws a blank instead, because as much as you want to look away, you can’t muster enough willpower in you to actually do so. _good one!_ a small voice in the back of your head echoes.

“gettin’ on yer nerves, i get. but, weird _how_?” osamu raises a brow, sliding the door closed behind him, the moon filtering through the window now replacing the hallway as an additional source of light within the room. he’s then kneeling onto the futon and sidling up to you, his chest brushing against your shoulder. you lock the screen as you flip your phone over, dropping the device between your folded legs, hands resting atop like a lid to the cookie jar—and osamu has the nerve, _the audacity_... to _pout_ at you.

“nunya business!” you reply, thumb and index gently pulling at osamu’s jutted lower lip. “not to mention, the last i checked… i know this is your place, and i’m pretty sure you have your own room. does _this_ —” here, you raise the same index finger, drawing circles in the air to gesture to the four corners of your surroundings. “—look like your room?”

“so yer sayin’ i can’t check on my house guests ta see how they’re settlin’?” osamu shifts to lay on his side, bicep flexing as he props his head up onto his hand.

“a courtesy call?” you dramatically gasp, a hand on your chest. osamu’s rolling his eyes at you, amusement tugging at a corner of his mouth. “stop it, ‘samu, your hospitality _truly_ is too much!”

“har har, _very_ funny.” a finger of his prods at your side, forcing a laugh out of you. you’re retaliating by means of lightly shoving at his arm, but he catches your wrist, having you wear his fingers like a bracelet.

“no, really, why are you in here? don’t tell me you missed me already?” you joke, half-heartedly wrapping your yearns with jest.

“and if i did?” he grins, all too proudly. “s’that gonna be a problem fer ya, ma’am?”

your heart skips a beat. _just a little, though._ “no, sir,” you mock, giving a salute. “just _peachy_.”

“amongst other things…” osamu drawls, giving you a once over now that he’s closer—you observe him dropping his gaze to your lap, taking in how his shorts ride down the length of your thighs, exposing more skin than usual, to how his jersey bunches up at your hips and drapes off a shoulder, the curve of your neck and collarbone on display looking particularly inviting.

you, however, quickly become flustered, reaching out to pull his towel over his head, your hand pressing the fabric right up against his nose. “if all you’re gonna do is ogle me, at least be subtle about it!”

laughter muffles itself against your palm, before osamu is yanking the towel off his head altogether, letting it bunch up behind him, damp hair falling to frame his forehead. “like ya didn’ do the same shit when i was standin’ at the door?”

you fall silent, teeth sinking into your lower lip. _busted._

“besides…” he’s pulling himself up, a hand rested in front of the junction of where your calves are crossed. he draws himself near, shoulder brushing up against yours and lips hovering over your ear— _so dangerously close_ , you smell his soap that also lingers on your skin. his lips then part to whisper an, “ain’t m’fault ya look good in _my_ clothes.”

and your heart is practically pounding against your chest, the smell of mint and the scent of _him_ —the very same one that comforts you—filling your nose. osamu studies your features for a reaction now that he’s within your personal bubble, and you in his; but you refrain from moving.

almost like you’re afraid to make a move—a move that actually _counts._ because the honest truth that you’ve been trying to ignore and squash down into the deepest, darkest parts of your mind is that you _are_ afraid.

afraid that all of osamu’s niceties towards you, up to this point, have merely been out of courtesy and nothing but. (after all, osamu is, and always has been, the more considerate and well-mannered of the miya brothers, and you always wonder what went differently with atsumu, who marches to the beat of his own drum.)

afraid of advancing past the line of friendship into something more; not wanting to ruin years of memories and moments shared between you and osamu because of how deep your feelings _actually_ run. you’ve conditioned yourself to prevent this by drilling the word ‘friends’ into your brain and into your interactions with others, despite how sick you actually are of the word, because you wouldn’t hesitate to put his happiness before yours, even if it wasn’t with you.

afraid of not living up to expectations he may or may not have, or the expectations that come with _being_ with someone like osamu—you’ve always admired osamu for his strength, his diligence, his skill. and maybe you dumb yourself down in comparison to him, even though you know you’re great, _because you are._ but you think osamu is someone worth marvelling over. sure, he isn’t a star athlete, like his brother, but you (still) think he’d be the man of your dreams—do all that he can, be all he can be. 

but most of all, you’re afraid of having to associate osamu— _kind, caring, passionate miya osamu_ —with the image of something—some _one_ —that hurts you. while he _is_ the man of your dreams, you’re aware that fantasy can be just as hurtful and harsh as reality is.

( but you’re already hurting by keeping all of this to yourself, _aren’t you?_ )

“why’d ya come home wit’ me, [name]?” osamu breathes against your cheek, head tilting so he’s in your view. “ya coulda jus’ put up a fight. maybe beat my ass, too—then go home. but ya didn’t. _why?_ ”

you want to stop thinking.

you want osamu to stop talking.

_oh, how you want it all to stop._

the tension wrapped around your gut begins to unfurl itself—it surges along your spine from bottom to top, and coils around the length of your arm, reaching the tips of your fingers. your hand lifts to embrace a side of his face, and in a flurry, without a thought or word, you close the distance and your lips are on his.

you’re kissing him.

_you’re_ kissing _osamu_.

you’re kissing osamu with an amount of ardour that you hope can convey your answer—your _feelings_ —in one fell swoop, nails grazing at the hair above his ear, but you register that you’re _kissing_ osamu and the rational part of your brain comes back to pull you off of him, breaking away with a gasp to bury your hands in your face, rolling yourself away from him and towards the pillows along the wall.

“fuck, i am _so_ sorry, i should’ve asked first! or just not done that at all, because you probably don’t see me that way, and i don’t know wh—”

“y’know, i wanted to do that first.”

“—at came over… me… what?” palms falling to collect the nearest pillow, you’re throwing a pointed stare of disbelief over your shoulder, cheeks sporting a furious shade of pink. “wait, _what?_ do _what?”_

osamu laughs almost breathlessly, body twisting in your direction, those lovely gray eyes of his revering you with a glint you can’t quite recognize. “i wanted ta kiss you first, silly girl. looks like ya beat me to it.”

your eyebrows crease, arching into your forehead. you’re slowly processing what he’s just said—emphasis on _slowly_ —and once the realisation dawns upon you, a firm hand is already hauling you towards him by your ankle.

“are you sayin—”

“ _i like you, [name]?_ ” he finishes off for you, grinning. “yeah. i have feelings fer ya— _have_ had ‘em fer a while.”

“define a while?”

“third year. right before ya left fer university in tokyo.”

_oh._

“realised shit was different when ya weren’t around.”

( you’re quietly thinking about how moving to tokyo for school had you forgetting your long-time crush on a boy from high school, but after you had a piece of paper in your hand with your name on it that meant something to society after years of study, and moved back to hyogo... and reunited with osamu... and spent a lot more time with him since coming back home... oh, _boy._ )

your insides feel light—tingly, almost. like you could fly, if you wanted to. maybe even parkour and somersault off a wall.

you think of the people who have waited for your stubborn, pessimist ass to see the other side where the grass is greener—your best friend, your parents, atsumu, even the cashier at the convenience store who thought you had a ‘sweet boyfriend’. had you really expected osamu not to feel the same way you do? the simple answer: yes. because the possibility of being rejected was, somehow, a lot easier for you to swallow.

this reality, however? it’s refreshing and invigorating all the same—the feeling is new and the unknown of it all scares you. and yet, you don’t want to let it go.

“now that _i_ have said my piece? guess i’m gonna have ta one up ya now, princess.”

“what do you m— _OH MY GOD._ ”

strong arms curl themselves behind your knees and around the small of your back, your words cut off by a scream as osamu wordlessly picks you up and throws you over his shoulder, your towel falling off your head in the process, before he’s making his way out of the spare room with you in tow.

“‘samu, put me _down!_ ” you screech, fingers clawing at the fabric of his tank top as you’re attempting to thrash about, despite the fact he could, potentially, drop you at _any_ second. “where are we going?!”

when an arm hugs your the back of your thighs tighter, and a hand is brought to slap at your ass, a jolt shoots up your spine and you let out an involuntary squeal that makes osamu chuckle. you hear the sound of a door knob twisting before you hear:

“where d’ya think? we’re goin’ ta my room _._ we have unfinished business.”

oh, _fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah........ i’m a fuckin liar, cus i’m a slut for a teeny bit of self-inflicted angst (and a little bit of crack ig?)
> 
> there’s one more chapter cus (again) i can’t stop addin shit LMAOOOOOOOOO gomenasorry 🙏 
> 
> bear with me, loves... i promise i will reward y’all soon! xoxo


	3. you'd do it for me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry this took so long to publish, life is a thing...
> 
> as usual, i am unbeta'ed. and i got *ariana grande voice* _nasty_. kinda.  
> (contains: a daddy kink, the obligatory pussy eating, a bit of degradation, a whole lotta praise, light choking, some dirty talk, unprotected sex, hints of a breeding kink, and a whole creampie for dessert.)
> 
> happy holidays and merry new year.

despite being friends with him for as long as you have, there are two new things you learn about miya osamu in the heat of the moment.

_fact number one:_ his room is _very_ different to the guest room you were supposed to be staying in.

the hinges of the black-painted door squeak as osamu pushes it open, walking into his very much western-styled bedroom with you in tow. a warmly lit lamp, sitting amongst the folders and laptop on his desk, greets you when you lift your gaze from the wood carpet flooring.

this whole ride of a man—very strong, immensely attractive—is then dropping you flat on your back diagonally across his well-made bed, hair sprawling out under your head and the backs of your ankles bracketing a corner of his mattress. you almost pout at the way he detaches himself from you to stand tall, drinking in the entirety of you beneath him.

his stare burns lines along your form, starting from your foot trailing the length of your leg, to your bent knee closing in over your thigh, to the back of your hand draped across your face and failing to hide the shade of pink colouring your flustered cheeks—and on realisation you’re closing yourself off from him, osamu fails to hide the little scowl settling on his visage.

“y’know, i can’t see ya if yer hidin’ from me like that,” he states, face impassive. he’s reaching out a hand towards your face, but your hand is faster, catching his palm in yours.

“but you see me often, do you not?” you playfully grin, basking in the surprise on osamu’s face when your fingers intertwine with his.

osamu scoffs, retracting his hand quickly and leaving you to curl your fingers into your own palm to remedy the warmth of his own touch. “in _my_ bed, wearing _my_ clothes though? nope, i do not.”

_point taken._

“but as bad as i want ya…”

he trails off, pausing—almost for dramatic effect. you’re briefly reminded of high school matches - more specifically, the eight second rule he’d take up _the entirety of_ on the court during serves, before _actually_ sending a serve over; just as it usually did then, the wait is (kind of) killing you now.

“i ain’t gonna do anythin’ to ya.”

you squint, mouth opening to kick up a fuss, your brain a fraction of an inch close to jumping to conclusions, but osamu is quick to cut in once more—

“i mean, _unless?_ ”

his brows waggle suggestively, lower lip jutting out with much exaggeration as he twiddles his pointer fingers comically. the words you were going to say are subsequently replaced with a kind of laugh, brow relaxing as your head shakes in disbelief. you’ve gone from surprised to nervous to disappointed in less than a minute, and you sigh incredibly loud.

“ _unless?_ ” you repeat, feigning disappointment. you prop yourself up on an elbow, shoulder protruding out of the collar of your shirt, and you’re pretending osamu’s eyeline is on your face and not drifting lower when you catch him licking his lips. _“_ fuckin’ idiot, _of course_ i want you. you don’t just get to slap my ass—”

a shade of red paints the apples of osamu’s cheeks; you digress, throwing an arm out.

“—and not continue. _now_. c’mere and kiss me, you fuckin’ goof.”

“jus’ a kiss, or…”

you hum in pretend thought. “maybe more.”

yanking off his own tank top to pool on the floor and kicking his slippers off with a laugh, the mattress creaks underneath the weight of osamu’s knees as he crawls over you. your legs untwist, allowing osamu’s hips to be caged between your thighs, before the calloused palm of his right hand slides across your cheek and threads through your hair as his lips finally, _finally_ capture yours.

osamu kisses you rather sweetly, his chest slowly sinking on top of yours as he gently lowers you onto the bed once more. your head tilts in the opposite direction, his grin smudging against your mouth when your arm curls around his shoulders. your other hand finds purchase in his hair, fingers gently tugging, and the little groan he breathes against you goes directly to your core.

the same goes for the moan drawled out of your throat when osamu helps himself to a handful of your ass and grinds his hips against yours once, your cheeks flushing at the realisation of something half-hard poking through his sweats.

“ _fuck,_ ” he curses, breaking away for a moment. his breathing mingles with yours, embrace firm and unrelenting in letting you slip away ( _especially_ his fingers gripping your left ass cheek), and the pounding of your heart against your chest grows louder at the proximity—or lack, thereof—between you and osamu.

but when gray eyes meet yours once again, that same ‘hungry’ glint you saw before you left the izakaya makes an appearance again; and when you bring your hand out of his hair to caress the side of his face, the kiss he presses to the inside of your wrist, followed by a soft bite, is more than happy to help you realise what you didn’t clearly understand an hour ago.

_fact number two:_ miya osamu is, indeed, hungry—and he’s got a craving for _you_.

and _that_ thought spurs on a certain warmth to simmer low and slow in your core, fueled by your pure want for him.

“y’know,” osamu starts. “woulda loved ta have taken ya on a proper date first, but—” 

your brain turns to slight mush when you feel the weight of his hands squeeze at your breasts through the fabric of his shirt covering your chest, eliciting a soft whimper out of your throat.

“we can do that later, yeah?” 

you don't miss the self-satisfaction in osamu’s voice—nor the way his tongue swipes along his lower lip, gaze heavy with want when you nod helplessly.

“fuck,” you whisper, your right hand dropping from his cheek to rest on the broad of his shoulder. “ _please—_ want more, want _you._ ”

“yeah?” osamu breathes against your skin, a chaste kiss pressed to your jawline. “ya gonna be good fer me first, princess?”

you nod affirmatively, but osamu doesn’t accept that for a response.

“couldn’ quite _hear_ ya there, baby,” he mumbles, lips ghosting over the skin of your collarbone. “good girls use their words.”

you whine so loud, clawing at his shoulder out of pure frustration, and osamu has the nerve to let out a chuckle as he takes in your current state once more. the way he fixes his line of sight on you with such intent almost feels like as if he’s committing the image of you underneath him to memory.

“ _yes_ , i’m good—i’ll be good!” you wail. he’s placing the gentlest of kisses along your throat, merely chuckling, and in your head? you want more. oh, how you crave _more_. forcing yourself to exhale whatever amount of embarrassment you think is left in your body, you open your mouth once more, out of desperation because you want more from _him._ “daddy, _please_ don’t tease me! i _need_ you—need _more_ of you _._ ”

softened eyes, pouted lip, and pleading voice all at once—you think you’re at your wits end here with osamu prolonging the inevitable. you're practically dizzy with desire, _aching_ for him to touch you. you don’t miss the way surprise fits itself over osamu’s face like a glove, nor do you miss the way you practically see the moment his brain starts to short-circuit.

but you also don’t miss the way a grin slowly tugs at his mouth a split second after, newfound determination painted on his features and swirling with the haze in his eyes you recognised earlier on as growing lust.

“keep calling me that and i _promise_ i’m gonna fuck you into the ground.”

the snarky retort you were probably going to say immediately dies on your tongue—your mouth falls slack with a gasp, almost in relief, your eyes rolling into the back of your head when you feel his teeth sink into the juncture of your neck and shoulder.

hissing out a moan, your nails carve crescents into his skin as osamu takes his sweet time in marking you, planting warmth in the form of open-mouthed kisses along your throat with violets promising to bloom across the expanse of skin you give him access to.

“mine,” you hear him murmur definitively after every kiss, every bite. “all _mine_.”

you feel a faint throbbing in your chest, the possession laced in his words echoing in your head. the roll of his hips, much more forceful than yours, and the kneading of his hands at your mounds, however, brings you back to the present—as does osamu seizing the opportunity to slot his mouth against yours, swallowing your sounds on his tongue.

“shit.” osamu mutters quietly when he pulls back, a guttural groan heard when your teeth grasp at his lower lip to keep him from separating from you. “wanted ta jus’ take my time wit ya. remember every little spot of yers that’ll make ya moan like a _whore_ fer me—”

the emphasis on his new indirect title for you results in a throb between your thighs. as you lose yourself to your imagination of what else he could call you, osamu’s thumb swipes at his lip, breaking the strings of saliva connecting you to him. he’s then descending your form, nosing a line from your navel to your sternum, teeth pulling the hem of his shirt over your breasts, letting it bunch up at your collarbones.

“—but yer makin’ that real fuckin’ hard fer me right now, [name].”

you don’t have the chance to be (or _think_ of being) embarrassed about your chest spilling out in the open, because osamu’s lips latch onto a hardened nipple whilst fingers lightly tweak at the other, resulting in a surprised squeak coming out of you.

“o- _oh_ …”

a jolt of pleasure shoots up your spine, back bowing off the bed, pushing more of your chest against osamu’s touch. as you raise a fist to your mouth to muffle your moans, your cheeks redden at the lewd sight before you—osamu’s mouth is hot and wet on your skin, tongue mirroring his thumb as they work in tandem, lavishing your sensitive nubs with flicks and circles.

“s’that feel good, princess?” osamu asks, unlatching with a wet pop. “daddy wants ta _hear_ ya.”

his eyes flit upwards, movement halting as he stares down at your hand obscuring his view of you. you reveal your face a second later, flushed in colour and seemingly blissed out, and osamu merely grins. once satisfied, he locks his gaze with yours as his mouth and hand switch, thumb and index rolling the (now) wet nub covered in a sheen of saliva— _his_ saliva.

“ _yes!_ ” you mewl when his teeth gently graze your other nipple, growing louder in volume when you feel him _suck._ “feels good, please… _more…_ ”

the way your nails dig into his skin reflect the way your body feels hot, alight with desire—your hips erratically grind into his, desperate for more friction. the fabric separating your lower half from his is as frustrating as it is pleasing when you’re able to feel osamu’s size rub against your clothed core.

you can’t help the moan that slips out of you as your brain slips into the idea of being split open by someone of his girth.

you also can’t help the particularly louder chorus of moans falling from your lips when osamu’s free hand roughly shoves itself beneath the waistband of your shorts, fingertips trailing lower until they're tracing slow circles at your clit. (small victories, indeed, for not having underwear on, _right?_ )

“ha-ah, _fuck!_ ” you cuss, eyes shut as you throw your head back against the pillow. your hips begin to buck against his hand, the proof of your arousal thickly coating his digits as his graze practically skirts along your opening.

“so fuckin’ _wet_.” osamu smirks, teeth gently tugging at your nipple before he lifts his head to admire the jiggle of your tits and the way you writhe underneath him, wrist stilling as he lets you shamelessly grind against the rough of his palm. “who made ya pussy this wet, babygirl?”

“you did, daddy— _haaaah!_ ”

if you thought you felt hot before, you feel like you’re _burning_ right now. as he shifts in position, caging a leg of yours in between his knees, a groan tears itself out of your throat as osamu props an arm near your ribs and with his other hand, slides his middle finger into your entrance. the way your walls immediately clamp around his first knuckle cause him to groan, blood immediately rushing south as his dick pokes harder into your thigh.

“so _wet_ , so _tight_ ,” he grunts. fixated on how your thighs twitch and your hips jerk erratically, he starts slow to find his pace, experimentally pumping more of his finger in and out of your heat with relative ease. “suckin’ my finger in real good, _shiiiit_. this cunny’s made fer me, ain’t it?”

“y-yes!” you stutter, eyes rolling into the back of your head. “only for you, daddy.”

“yeah?” he grins, satisfied. he’s then slipping another finger into you—watches the way your brows twitch, watches the way your shape trembles, watches the way you leave prints of the moon along the length of his arm. _fuck_ , you’re going to be the death of him and he can’t wait to drown in you. “do ya touch yerself like this when yer alone? fuckin’ ya fingers wishin’ they were mine?”

the whimper you make is your response to osamu, because the obvious answer is, well, yes. _yes, you have._ your mouth moves faster than your brain when you also add on how much thicker and rougher his fingers are, compared to yours, and osamu seems pleased by this—and when the tips of his digits rub at a particular spot along your walls, you squeal his name out at a volume a lot louder than the sounds you’d been making before, body beginning to coil when his pace quickens.

“yer so beautiful, baby,” he praises, captivated in the way you react to him—especially when his fingers curl against that particular spot once more, and you keen, thighs beginning to twitch.

in comparison to his brother, you’ve always known osamu to be on the softer side of the spectrum—gentle, selfless, considerate. _romantic,_ almost?

through all his words, past and present, he speaks to you with a tenderness that means well. to your ears, it’s a sound that reflects a feeling akin to a bowl of rice: warm, simple, comforting, versatile—but most importantly, filling. because miya osamu fills you to the brim with a smorgasbord of feelings you cannot begin to describe.

however, you’re quickly learning that just because he shows you a softer side, does not mean miya osamu isn’t capable of carnal desire either.

“wonderin’ if ya’d do the same when i stuff ya with my fat cock.”

and you aren’t even going to pretend the vulgarity spilling from osamu’s mouth doesn’t head directly to the growing wetness beginning to soak the mounts of his palm, aiding the addition of a third finger. 

“ya takin’ my fingers so well… drippin’ all over _‘em_ , makin’ an absolute _mess_ of yerself on me.”

you’re practically thrusting yourself on his fingers now, shamelessly, and _fuck_ , you feel so full of him and yet not—

“but yer a lil’ too quiet for my likin’, babygirl… guess i’ll have to speak to you another way.”

those are the last words you hear before the stretch of osamu’s fingers disappearing from you. you whine at the loss of touch, but you blush when osamu licks his own fingers _clean._

“fuckin’ delicious, ya are.” he’s then pausing, shifting once again to position himself in between your legs. “still hungry tho’, want more.” 

pushing your form up higher on his bed and descending your frame even further, he’s then pulling your shorts off, tossing them over his shoulder, and kissing a line downwards until he reaches your inner thigh. osamu forgoes looking you directly in the eye, instead focusing his attention in between your legs—you're absolutely _dripping_ , and osamu can’t stop staring with wonder at how wet and wanting you are for _him_. the smell of your arousal is as good as it looks; you’re more appetising than his favourite meals, and he can’t wait to fuckin’ devour you.

you would be lying if you weren’t embarrassed at the way osamu studies your pussy with intent, so you reach a hand down as a feeble attempt to cover up, but your hand is slapped away gently. your thighs are then closing in tightly around osamu’s head when he licks a long, languid stripe from your sopping slit to your throbbing clit—and the long, garbled cry of his name that echoes from your throat has him grinning against you directly.

osamu lives up to his bottomless appetite because you’re now discovering, through a very hands-on approach, that he eats pussy exactly like he eats food— _like a starved man_.

a broad hand grips at the meat of your thigh as his mouth latches onto your cunt, bottom lip dragging upwards until he’s giving a particularly hard suck that makes you squeal, his tongue swirling around your bud in patterns you can barely even decipher. his stare burns right through you, your body heating up; you feel your stomach coiling, heels digging into his spine. osamu builds you up to the point of his other arm curling over your middle, strength used to pin your hips down when you start to thrash with every lick and suck he gives. and you think you’re almost _there_ if he continues the way he does—but he _stops_ , and you’re almost _crying_.

“fuck, _please_ —”

“please _what_ , [name]?” 

osamu’s warm breath fans against your folds, breathing you in and kissing oh so softly as he waits for an answer from you. when his head tilts up slightly, your wetness covers him from the tip of his nose, right down to his chin—you shouldn’t feel the need to want to sit on his face, but even that thought alone makes you whine.

“you’re teasing me too much, _please_ —wanna cum.”

“then be a good girl and cum on daddy’s face, darlin’.”

you respond in kind with a long winded moan and a jerk of the hips against his face as his thumb slips into the mix to rub steady circles against your throbbing clit. the strokes of osamu’s tongue become broader against you, beginning to prod in between your convulsing walls, and the combined sensations of both have you crying out his name repeatedly.

osamu watches you with such focus when he decides to move his thumb faster and deliberately works his tongue in and out of you with the same rhythm, practically lapping your wetness as he does. however, when he does a particularly sharp, open-mouthed suck, your hips snap and you scream—

“osamu, f- _fuck!!!_ ”

as he intended, your release gushes on his face. there’s a glint in osamu’s eyes that hint as a telltale sign of being pleased with the result, humming in content as he helps you ride out your high, sure to savour every single drop of you on his tongue and in his mouth. 

“there’s my good girl,” he says, continuing to whisper praise against you, grip loosening as he caresses your hips. “so good fer me.” placing one last kiss on your sensitive clit that makes you twitch, osamu sits back on his knees, taking a good look at you once more as he wipes your wetness on his chin away with the back of his hand—you barely move and sweat has formed around your hairline, but he thinks you’re beautiful. you always have been beautiful, but even moreso when he watches your pussy clench around nothing whilst in nothing but his shirt.

you, on the other hand? you’re still in mere disbelief that you’ve not only been fingered, but also eaten out, by the boy (man?) you’ve felt intense feelings for since high school. this is a _lot_ better than your daydreams, you think. however, you can’t help but want _more_ of him...

once you’re able to regain your breathing, you point your gaze in between your legs to see osamu palming himself to the sight of you. your post nut clarity, however, brings back your embarrassment and you close your legs together. osamu, on the other hand, growls once more at you closing yourself to him again, and drags you closer to him by your ankle.

“c’mere, ain’t done wit’ ya just yet.”

your clarity drowns in the haze once more as you stare into osamu’s eyes, the latter who stares back into you with a fierceness that reignites the flame within your body. and before osamu can say anything further, your mouth moves faster than your brain—

“please tell me that means you’re gonna fuck me.”

osamu stares at you in mere silence, a little stunned. a slow grin comes back to him two seconds later. “s’that what you want?”

“i want _you_ , so yes.”

you end your consent with a cute little nod, and osamu has never moved so fast in his life to reach for his bedside table—and just as he’s about to open the drawer, your hand reaches out to grab at his forearm. he freezes like a deer in headlights, fear momentarily replacing the lust in his full-blown irises. silence passes over you as you’re suddenly flustered again, teeth pulling at a corner of your lip.

“if those are where your condoms are, i don’t want ‘em.”

you blurt that out all too shyly, but osamu hears you word for word. though his brain short-circuits, he’s got a shitton of scenarios playing in his head already, while your rambling plays as temporary background noise.

“i’m on birth control. have been, for a while—life reasons. but, um…”

you drift off, and despite the fact both of you are half-naked, you still find room to be shy. osamu wordlessly reaches out to run a hand along your cheek, brushing the curtain of hair hanging in your face behind your ear.

“i’m basically tryna say i’d let _you_ raw me,” you admit all too forwardly as you face him directly, emphasizing the ‘you’. “but only if you’re okay with that. _and_ if you’re clean. _and_ if you’re a good boy.”

osamu shoots a grin your way, ignoring the way his heart swells (perhaps at the thought you’d saved something for him?), fingers kneading at the flesh of your cheeks before he rolls his weight on you, and kisses all over your face, which has you giggling like mad.

“i’m clean, don’t worry... and i ain’t good, princess. i’m the fuckin’ best—whatever my princess wants, she gets.”

in your fit of giggles, you’re pressing a gentle peck to the tip of his nose. “‘mkay, good! i’m glad. and besides—” you cut yourself off and lean in close, lips right against the shell of his ear. osamu _feels_ how warm your breath is against his skin, _feels_ the way you smirk against the lobe of his ear, _feels_ the amusement he had two seconds ago disappear when you start trying to tug at the waistband of his sweats. “want you to fuck my brains out ‘til i’m screamin’ nothin’ but yer name, and milk ya fer all yer worth until i’m absolutely full of yer cum.”

yep, osamu thinks you’re _definitely_ out to kill him. he could’ve blown his load then and there on you by your words alone. the worst part is that you’re legitimately _asking_ to get wrecked—for _him_ to wreck you—and his mind is on overload because if that wasn’t hottest way he’s ever heard someone give their consent… _how can that even be beat?_

the tipping point is when you wrap your legs around his bare hips and press your wetness against his skin and give a slow grind against his torso. the sinful little moan you make, along with how slick you feel, and how almost blissed out you look, causes him to pin your hips to his mattress. you’re giggling once again when you observe him trying his hardest to take his sweatpants off in the most smoothest way possible, but you’re the start of a moaning mess when osamu traces the head of his cock along your folds.

sitting back on his knees, your thighs laid atop his, osamu flits his gaze up to yours, searching for any last second doubt in your features, but you don’t give him any—only nod helplessly in want, almost drooling when you take in the sight of his actual size, your hips writhing impatiently underneath his naked form.

but osamu is osamu, however—he wants to _savour_ this moment. 

“look at ya, practically askin’ to go dumb on my cock,” he croons, his pre-cum smearing itself along your clit as he rubs the head along your wetness and lets out a deep groan of his own that rivals the pitch of your moan. “who woulda thought my pretty girl would be such a filthy whore.”

you whine impatiently, desperate for more, _much more_ , of him, but osamu relents, a firm hand holding your jerking hips in place as a means of exerting some form of control.

“ya gonna be a good girl fer me?”

you nod repeatedly, more whines following; osamu tuts, head shaking. _wrong answer._

“use your words, princess.”

“y-yes.”

“yes, _what_?”

you swallow nervously, before answering: “yes, daddy.”

“good girl,” osamu praises. “eyes on me at all times, hands to the side where i can see ‘em.”

you’re nodding wordlessly, about to voice a “yes” once more, but the slow push of osamu easing his cock in between the slit of your sopping cunt knocks the wind out of you, sucking in a sharp breath as your back begins to arch.

“f-fuckin’ shit,” osamu stutters, reveling in the feel of your silky walls deliciously fluttering around his length—you feel so _warm_ around him. he felt you on his fingers, but feeling you now? like this? “ain’t even at least halfway and yer already swallowin’ me. such a greedy cunny ya got, princess.”

you can only let out a mewl, eyes rolling back into your skull, fingers grasping at the sheets beneath you as he gives you a moment to adjust to him—the sensation of being slowly filled and stretched out by miya osamu, the boy you’ve had feelings for since high school, is very much not a dream.

and he, unconditionally, feels the same for you.

“s’all for you, daddy,” you whimper breathlessly, lips brought together in a lazy smile as you pull the shirt you’re wearing up higher, exposing your breasts to him once more and giving him a proper view of how he actually looks inside of you. “my pussy’s been wet and waitin’ fer ya ta come stretch me out.”

you feel him twitch, if not grow bigger, inside of you, and you have the absolute nerve to _giggle_ again, which has you squeezing him involuntarily.

“how can someone so cute be so fuckin’ dirty,” osamu grunts as both his hands take hold of your hips. he gives an experimental drag of his cock, bottoming out, and the way your shape contorts underneath him when he slides back in even deeper—the way your tits bounce when he drives further into you, the way his length disappears into you...

_fuck._

“ya have no idea how long ‘ve wanted… ta have ya like this… _fuck._ ” osamu breathes. you clench around him with every little adjustment he makes, and his eyes roll into the back of his head. “gonna make ya feel _so_ good—fuck the absolute shit outta ya.”

“promise?”

of all the moments and times you could’ve picked to pull a doe-eyed, pouted face, you choose now? osamu knows you’re fucking with him—and _fucking_ him, of course—but god, if that didn’t make his heart melt and his dick grow.

“promise, babygirl.”

the final nail in the coffin for you is when you drag your own hips, only to sink back onto his dick with a soft sigh of relief, your ankles interlocking behind the small of his back as your legs wrap around his pelvis.

“then fuck me already, daddy. i can handle you.”

without missing a beat, the broad of osamu’s hands begin to dig into the flesh of your hips, as he slowly thrusts into you. you’re moaning softly, breath hitching as pleasure begins to build between your thighs—even more so when osamu leans down, his lips finding your throat again to place gentle kisses and bites in addition to the previous ones he’s already left behind on you. 

“ _fuck,_ so big—you feel so good already,” you whine, spine arching as your arms circle around his shoulders, nipples pressed to the hardness of his chest in the process. 

“such a good girl, all wet and wrapped around daddy like this,” osamu groans against your neck with open-mouthed kisses. “ _my_ good girl.”

as you angle your hips, he doesn’t let up in his pistons, or his grip that’s hard enough to leave bruises on your hips, but that (and the open praise) only adds to the arousal of you moaning a lot louder for him, feeling yourself grow wetter by the second as you grind against him.

“wanna wreck you so bad, baby... wanna see you shake, wanna see you tremble, have you fuckin’ _begging_ for me,” he grunts against your jawline, each sentence ending with a slam of his hips. your thighs begin to spread more, by force of osamu shifting to lean the weight of his own thighs against yours, allowing him to thrust even deeper within you. “gonna fuckin’ ruin you for anyone else who thinks they can fuck you better than i can.” 

“only you,” you sob out immediately. “only want you, daddy. promise!”

“yeah?” osamu grins, another snap of the hips that make you keen. “good, ‘cus yer mine. gonna make this pussy mine. only _i’m_ allowed ta know this pussy, understand?”

the way you cry out your next “ _yes!_ ” is so loud, you’re almost in tears and you’re sure his neighbours can hear you. you’re trembling uncontrollably, thighs pressing against the strength of osamu's palms when he finds purchase in the back of your knees and spreads you out even wider. 

“can’t hear you, princess,” he says with a shit-eating grin, beads of sweat forming at his forehead and neck as he pounds into you with so much ease because you’re so, _so_ wet for him. “ya cunny that hungry for me? want my cock so fuckin’ bad, huh? can’t even fuckin’ let go of me.”

you’re babbling incoherently, in a strong attempt to answer osamu, but you look so fucked out for him with your eyes rolled back into your skull, your breasts bouncing with every piston osamu gives you, and how your pussy has his dick in a vice grip.

for the nth time tonight, osamu has never seen anything, or anyone, more beautiful than you.

“faster,” you half-beg, half-whimper, your nails raking long red lines into the skin of his back. “daddy, please go fast— _haaaah!_ ” 

and who is osamu to deny you? he answers you wordlessly, rough fingers practically gripping the back of your knees as the head of his cock begins to bruise your cervix in a way that has you practically clenching around him.

“ _fuck, fuck, fuck_ , feels so _good_ ,” you whisper like a mantra, hips drawing jerky patterns in an attempt to match his pace. “gonna cum, oh my god, fuck—”

osamu merely grins, purposely slowing his thrusts. “who owns this pussy, babygirl? go on, tell me.”

you think you feel your senses come back to you, but instead you have a devil on your shoulder that wants him to _break_ you. you think this part of your subconscious is insane—but that same devil, who just wants you to get absolutely obliterated, pulls at your innate controls when your lips blurt out a “me” in response to him.

“oh? so, _now_ the cockslut decides to have a brain?” osamu chuckles darkly, a slam of his hips against yours feeling particularly harsh, causing your insides to feel like they’re about to shatter and your body to reverberate in the after effect.

_wrong answer._ and you know it.

“this cockslut is taking your dick particularly well, don’t you think?” you have no idea where your backtalk comes from, despite how almost fucked out you look, but from the way gray eyes narrow at you, irritation forming between his brows? you’re hitting the jackpot slowly, but surely.

“very well,” osamu concurs, slowly readjusting your positions—your own hands are made to replace his behind your knees, and his palms settle over yours to still them for a moment. you want to let your thighs down, but rough hands reinforce your grip. “‘course it’s yours, baby. you’re right... but what i mean is, _your_ pussy is _mine_ —mine to _fuck_ , mine to _fill_ , mine to _love_. _all_ mine.”

osamu doesn’t give you another word to speak when one of his now free hands winds around your neck, thumb and fingers squeezing at the sides of your throat, causing you to gasp for air and tighten even further around his cock as he continues to piston his hips with no sign of stopping.

“such a good little whore,” he smirks, watching your form now—watches how the whites of your eyes are more prominent than ever, watches how tears form at the corners of your eyes, watches how you wickedly grin in your current state as you hold yourself up against his thrusts. “you take daddy so well, don’t you?”

in your light-headedness, you hear faint, baritone chuckling above you; it takes you a while to be brought back to earth, and once you’re aware of your surroundings again, the vice grip around your throat is replaced with the plush of osamu’s lips and the bite of osamu’s teeth. you feel a rough hand thumbing at a nipple of yours, while another hand has his fingers press into the hollow of your cheeks, forcing you to look at him with your lips jutted out as he grits a, _“know your place and scream my damn name so everyone in this fuckin’ complex knows who’s makin’ ya feel so fuckin’ good.”_

his hips have not faltered in the slightest with their pace, nor their force—osamu is practically jackhammering into your sweet spot at this point in time. your walls flutter and tense much, much tighter around his girth as his lips plant against the shell of your ear, his voice heavy with want.

“be a good girl and cum all over my cock, princess. wanna make a bigger fuckin’ mess between ya thighs then when you fucked yourself on my fingers and tongue.”

as much as he’s chasing his own release, he wants you to coax you into your own release before him — _ladies first_ , _after all_ — and drags his hand from your breast down in between your legs, his middle finger rubbing at your sensitive clit in quick and tight circles, and holy _fuck,_ you're seeing stars.

god, if you could see yourself the way osamu sees you — how your body twists and contorts underneath him with every touch, every lick, every bite. how your nails dig into the back of your thighs as hard as you’ve marred the skin of his back, watching how you take his dick so fuckin’ _good_. you’re so fuckin’ pretty for him, but you’re the prettiest when you let out a garbled mix of curses and moans and cries from the added pressure on your clit when your eyes shut tight, breathing halted as your hips still and the pressure built below your stomach bursts, a loud “ _samu!_ ” rips itself raw from your throat as your (second) release finally washes over you.

your thighs fall slack with a whimper, your hands releasing them, and you feel spent and oversensitive. osamu gathers your limp frame in his arms, murmuring a litany of praise within a peppering of kisses along your skin _—_ _yer so fuckin’ pretty, you did so well, that’s my girl, such a good girl fer me —_ before you realise he’s yet to cum.

and who are you, if you don’t help him?

“s’your turn to cum for me, my love,” you whisper as you forcibly pull yourself up, close enough to crush your breasts against his chest, arms circling around his shoulders once more as you press your forehead to his, still throbbing around his cock. “want you ta fill my cunny right up, wanna take every last drop of you, wanna have ya babies too _—_ ”

that last part of your sentence sets something off in osamu, the tightness of your walls still clenching around him. his arms around your torso have tightened in their grip and you swear he’s fucking you a lot faster than before. he’s grunting your name in his own garbled mix of curses and groans, thrusts becoming incredibly sloppy as you whisper in his ear for encouragement _— just like that, p_ _ump me full of yer cum i can take it, god fuck yes, you're almost there daddy —_ until his hips snap sharply into place, feeling the warmth of his release painting your insides.

“ _fuck,_ ” he pants into your collarbone, chuckling after. his hold on you is unrelenting, fingers drifting along the length of your lower spine. “tryna fuckin’ kill me, ain’t ya?”

you laugh breathlessly against his shoulder, limbs keeping a firm embrace on his frame. your cunt refuses to let him pull out of you, further encouraged by the way your interlocked ankles press against the small of his back, but osamu is a lot more stronger than you. as he unfurls himself from your limbs and (regretfully) pulls out of you, he stares down in mere wonderment as his cum oozes out of you, tummy deflating in the process. you whine when his thumb attempts to push his release back into you, but you’re spilling him out nonetheless. the mess he’s made of you has his chest swelling with pride, and he’s sure to commit _this_ image of you into his memory as well.

while you’re gathering your wits, stuck in a sort of post nut daze, osamu gently grabs at your chin to steal a kiss ~~(and in turn, your breath away)~~ before leaving your side momentarily. he’s then settling back down besides you moments later, his weight causing the bed to creak. with a wet wash cloth in hand, he’s lapping at the mess in between your legs first, careful to not spill himself out of you and onto his sheets _—_ he’s unsuccessful, however, and ends up laying a towel underneath you, with a mental note to change his bedding tomorrow.

he’s then gathering your weight into his arms as he rolls into bed on the other side of you to get comfortable, the curve of your bare ass seated on his softening cock. you’re tugging at his shirt, intent on covering most of your frame, only to stop halfway because his fingers are resting atop the flesh of your tummy, thumb rubbing semi-circles into your skin. osamu is the one to break the post-coital silence, however.

“so... babies, huh?”

“not now, but s’true. fuckin’ hate kids, but i’d have _yours_.”

“better shut up, before i fuck one into you.”

you’re wheezing of amusement at this point, and osamu’s laughter choruses with yours. and your disbelief settles in again because not only have you been eaten out and fingered by osamu? you’ve been fucked by him, have admitted you’d have his children, and are now being spooned by him. your brain drifts back into the good ol’ _what are we_ but before you’re allowed to ponder even further, osamu speaks again.

“meant what i said when i said yer mine, [name], and i ain’t lettin’ anyone else have ya.”

you gasp playfully, brow raised as you turn your head to look over your shoulder at him. though your heart skips a beat, you do a damn good job of not showing it... on your face. “this ya way of askin’ me out? a little backwards, methinks.”

“said i was gonna take ya out on a date after, fucks sake!”

oh, you’re having _way_ too much fun getting on osamu’s nerves as you laugh rather heartily, but you don’t think you’ve ever been happier to know your feelings have been reciprocated _and_ consummated. not before this moment, anyway.

“fine!” you roll your eyes, a smug smirk pulling at a corner of your lips as you turn away. “guess you can be mine, too.”

osamu grins, placing a kiss onto your shoulder. “got no choice, you can’t resist me.”

“s’that a problem, ‘samu?”

his lips are now finding a spot behind your neck that makes you mewl. “absolutely not, ma’am.”

“that’s my boy.”

and with the way osamu begins to harden yet again underneath you, hand brought up to gently grip around your throat again? oh, you’re in for the ride of your life.

* * *

“well, _someone_ looks proper fucked out.”

“atsumu, what the _FUCK_?”

you’re screeching much too loud for someone who’s just woken up at midday as you stumble with a limp into the kitchen, hair completely mussed and osamu’s jersey hanging off your shoulder, exposing the purples and indigos littering your neck. atsumu, who’s far too well-dressed in comparison, remains silent as he leans against the kitchen counter, merely sipping at his mug at an obnoxiously loud volume. you smell coffee, and your stomach rumbles for some kind of sustenance.

“when’s the wedding? and when am i becoming an uncle?”

“not anytime soon, so eat shit and die!”

atsumu has to dodge when you hurl an orange from the fruit bowl on top of the table at him, cackling very loudly as he places his mug down. his laughter dies out slowly when osamu enters the scene, wearing the shorts you’d originally worn last night—a fact atsumu doesn’t know, but you do. and that makes you blush furiously.

your frame is scooped into osamu’s strong arms from behind, and he’s planting a kiss onto your cheek, which has you visibly calming down and melting into his hold. the scene is oddly domestic, and atsumu can only watch on in what feels like both interest and disgust.

“took you two long enough!” he exclaims in exasperation.

you roll your eyes and promptly ignore him; osamu does the same. “anyways, m’gonna go fer a shower or else ma gets even more mad that i’m running late,” you announce, wiggling out of osamu’s hold as you spin around.

though reluctant to let go of you, he does nonetheless—but not before smoothing your hair down, dropping a kiss onto the crown of your head. “i’ll have somethin’ ready fer ya ta eat when yer done.”

“my saviour,” you blissfully sigh, smiling when osamu’s palms squish at the plush of your cheeks to blow a raspberry against your forcibly pouted lips.

you then disappear down the hallway, leaving the twins in the kitchen. in the midst of osamu starting to pull ingredients out from the pantry, he pauses—turns to an unassuming atsumu, who’s focused on the screen of his phone and doesn’t know what’s about to hit him.

“hey, ‘tsumu?”

“yeh, bruv?”

“when ya told [name] ya’d get yer time with her eventually last night, fuck’d ja mean by that?”

“simple.” atsumu grins, oblivious to the way osamu's twirling a cast iron frying pan in his hand. “if ya didn’t snatch her up, i woulda.”

osamu’s eyes only narrow. “ya _do_ know i’ve liked her since high school, yeah?”

“okay, _and?_ ”

silence passes between the two, and when atsumu finally looks up and realises the situation he’s in—

“‘samu?”

—oh, he’s royally _screwed_ and is already bolting for the couch, if not the furthest distance away from his brother.

“thoughtless, pig-headed—”

“OI, PUT THE FUCKIN’ PAN DOWN!”

“—absolute shit-fer-brains, good-fer-nothing sonnuva—”

“YA FUCKIN’ _ASKED_ , ‘SAMU!”

“—only thinks about his fuckin’ self, never others—”

“I’M _JOKIN’_ , I SWEAR ON NAN’S GRAVE!”

“GET OUTTA MY HOUSE!”

“TELLIN’ MUM YER BEIN’ MEAN TA ME!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you think i had to end it on the note of atsumu being a shitstirrer with south london boy energy... i did, but we love him. we really do love him. <3
> 
> ANYWAYS, NOTES....  
> 1\. my brain STRUGGLED to finish this bc it was HARD to string words together. and that's on me hating the english language because i still can’t figure out whether it’s lay or lie. i'm hella unhappy with how this turned out but AT LEAST IT'S DONE!??!?! the way this chapter most likely has the same amount of words as 1+2 combined. chile... anyways, so.  
> 2\. it's not osamu p*rn if he doesn't put his mouth to use. ERRBODY SAY PUSSY AND KEEP IT GOIN ( AYYYYY 🗣 )  
> 3\. don't be like reader tho, raw dogging reality 'n shit. PRACTICE SAFE SEX!!!!!!! WRAP IT UP!!!!!!! MAKE SURE YOUR PARTNERS ARE CLEAN!!!!! CONTRACEPTION IS AS SEXY AS CONSENT CUS FUCK THEM KIDS!!!!!!!!  
> 4\. i may or may not have a mattsun AND a bokuto piece (each) in the works. lemme see where my brain gonna take me. xoxo
> 
> anyways: if ur funny or dip fries in your soft serve, drop a comment? :D see y'all next time... *cardi voice* or not. heheh. (I'M JOKING I PROMISE)


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